


A Hundred Paper Cranes

by captain_trashmouth



Series: Becoming [1]
Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Aftermath, Boys In Love, Character Study, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Galo POV, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Learning to be soft, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Recovery from trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_trashmouth/pseuds/captain_trashmouth
Summary: For you, in the days after, he slowly unfolds like a flock of a hundred paper cranes.
Relationships: Lio Fotia/Galo Thymos
Series: Becoming [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661308
Comments: 15
Kudos: 101





	A Hundred Paper Cranes

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a lot about what would happen in the aftermath of the film, and how difficult it would be for Lio to unlearn all of the habits he has held onto from a life lived on the run. I was thinking a lot about my own experiences with overcoming trauma and the bumps we face in the road to recovery, and funneled that into this short piece. It made me want to write something beautiful.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Feedback of any kind means a lot to me, as writing is a major creative outlet and it takes a lot for me to share the things that I write. Your readership means a lot to me.
> 
> \- cap

For you, in the days after, he slowly unfolds like a flock of a hundred paper cranes. You know how they are made, which is why you understand how difficult it is to make them come undone. One by one, all those carefully creased edges move, blooming outward into something open and wanting. Each little piece of paper lets you know him more, know him better, but they are hard to earn. It happens slowly but with great certainty, in the way that green growing things move, unfurling toward the sun and you. He seeks you out as if you’re tied together, as if you’re magnetic. He chases you without realizing that you are not running. He lets himself fall two steps behind, certain that if he touches you, if he lets himself catch you, that you will fade into dust in his hands. He’s spent a long time gripping tight to ashes and other things that so easily slip through your fingers. Over time, you catch him looking at you. You notice that his eyes never stray, even when you catch him staring. He never looks away, unafraid to confront you with a strong set to his jaw and a willingness to fight but he can’t understand why you offer an open hand instead of a fist. The first time he kisses you, it is so light, so faint that you aren’t even sure he’s kissed you at all. He disappears for a week after.

He finds his way back to your side, still shy, still beautiful. You let him take his time. You slow, choosing to telegraph your movements and to show that you are a safe place for him and with time, he starts to settle. The second time he kisses you, it is bittersweet. It tastes like something you can’t quite name, but it reminds you of a home you’ve only ever had in recent years. It tastes like a home you’ve built for yourself, the one that is filled with the laughter of friends you’ve chosen and that love you. You realize that he has never known that kind of stability. As you try desperately not to cry, he holds your hand. His palms are sweaty as he apologizes for making you sad. He doesn’t understand that he hasn’t hurt you, but that you are sad on his behalf. He tells you that he thinks he’s too damaged to be the kind of friend that you deserve, but he wants to try. If you are willing to let him, he wants to try. He gives you a soft smile when you tell him that his friendship matters to you, no matter what shape it takes. You open your arms to him, and he hesitates for a moment before he steps forward. He holds you with gentle hands, as if your bones are made of glass and will snap apart under the slightest pressure. He holds you like you are a small and fragile thing, and it is the first time anyone has held you with tenderness.

He starts to tell you about his past. He never mentions his childhood, and you start to wonder if he remembers it at all. If he wants to remember it at all. Mostly, he tells you about what still hurts. That’s a step in the right direction, because that means that now, he will acknowledge that it hurts at all. He is stoic and fierce and unfailingly kind, never letting on that everything aches. He carries so much weight for someone with such narrow shoulders, and he gives you an ugly look when you offer to share the burden. He sighs and runs a finger through that pale hair, and he admits that he doesn’t know what it’s like to not have to carry it. He admits that he does not know who he is without it, and that for so long, his only purpose has been to lug that burden around. You kiss him, and he melts into it. You ask him again, to let you help him carry everything that weighs him down and he says nothing, but he kisses you again. You take that as a yes.

He only sleeps well when you’re next to him. He won’t admit it, he doesn’t want you to know how much it affects him, but you hear from others that on nights when he has to sleep alone, he often does not sleep at all. You aren’t sure when it became natural for him to fall into the sheets with you, to press his small body against your own, but it is. The feeling of him pressing his face into the space between your shoulder blades is what you imagine what puzzle pieces feel when they finally slot into place. Being like this is easy, as so few things are for him, and you cherish that look of peace he gets as he settles down into the bedding. He looks at you through hooded eyes, and he asks if it is alright for him to want to touch you, to be closer to you than a friend ought to be. You’ve never answered a question faster in your life, and he laughs. God, he laughs, and you want to drink it up, you want to swallow that sound and store it deep in your belly so that no one else can ever have it. You realize that it’s the first time you’ve heard him really laugh, and your heart clenches as he moves closer. He holds your gaze for a moment before he presses kisses to your heat-touched skin, shy and experimental. He reluctantly admits that he’s never done this before, and that you’re the first person that he’s ever wanted to touch this way. You let him map your body with his hands, tracing every line and scar, every muscle but he is hesitant to let you do the same. His ribs still stick out too far, but he’s filling out. He’d grown used to being hungry all the time, he says. But now? Mostly, he’s hungry for you. You’d let him tear you apart if it would make him happy. The first time he lets you love him with your hands, he cries. You have to stop halfway through, but that’s alright, it’s alright, you tell him, and he shakes his head. He explains that it wasn’t that you did anything wrong, fuck, he feels so stupid, but he was just really happy. You ask if he wants to try again. He does.

As months go by, you learn this dance. It is a delicate flow, like the woven threads of a tapestry coming together on a loom, each step carefully made and hard-earned as you move together. You learn how to read him, tracing the effects that his shivers leave behind like Braille. They are constellations drawn out beneath your fingertips as you feel your body and his bleed together. So tangled up like this, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin but that’s alright. It’s good, it’s so good as his fingers yank at your hair and his teeth snap at the column of your exposed throat. This is not submission, no, this is how steel is forged and tempered. The only word he knows is your name and he yields to you as if you were pressing your fingers into overripe fruit. It’s greedy, the way he moves, as if he wants to pull you into his bones and make you live there. He is the glass and you are the water, both spilling as you overflow, covetous and gasping. You are the ocean and he is a river, both proud and so very different but full of life. His pale, freckled skin is slick with sweat as you dig your thumb into the tense line of a trapezius muscle, and he sighs as you scrape away the tension he still carries. When he tells you that he loves you for the first time, you cry. He presses you back into the sheets and shows you, all over again, how much he means it.


End file.
